The cold air of Milan's night bit sharply as Dante prepared for the inevitable battle against Igor. His office, usually a sanctuary of calculated calm, was now a war room. Maps, dossiers, and blueprints of Igor's hideouts lay scattered across the mahogany desk. Matteo stood beside him, grim-faced as they finalized the plans.
Dante's mind, however, drifted to Isabella. She was safely at home, unaware of the firestorm brewing. He would protect her at all costs—she was his anchor, his salvation. He'd raze the earth before letting Igor touch her again.
The ringing of his phone shattered his thoughts. Frowning, he glanced at the unknown number on the screen. Against his better judgment, he answered.
"Il Diavolo" a raspy voice sneered on the other end, "your angel isn't as safe as you think."
Dante's heart stopped. His grip on the phone tightened, nearly crushing it. "Who the hell are you?"
"Someone who has her" the voice taunted. "If you want to see her alive, come to the warehouse on Via Salvatore. Alone."
The call ended abruptly, and Dante's blood ran cold. Rationality warred with the panic clawing at his chest. He turned to Matteo, his voice a low growl. "Stay here. On Standby."
"Dante, this could be a—" Matteo began, but the look in Dante's eyes silenced him.
"A trap?" Dante finished, already grabbing his coat and gun. "I don't care. If there's even a chance she's in danger, I'm going."
Without waiting for a response, Dante stormed out, his mind singularly focused on one thing: Isabella.
The warehouse loomed like a ghost in the dark, its rusted metal walls creaking ominously in the wind. Dante approached cautiously, his gun drawn, every sense on high alert. The eerie silence was unsettling, broken only by the faint drip of water from somewhere deep within.
"Isabella?" he called, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness.
No response.
He moved further in, his sharp eyes scanning every shadow. The smell of oil and metal hung heavy in the air, mingling with something acrid that prickled his nose.
And then it hit him. The faint hiss of gas being released.
Realization dawned too late. The air around him thickened, and his vision blurred. His head swam as the unmistakable scent of anesthesia filled his lungs.
"Bastardi" he growled, stumbling as the room seemed to tilt around him.
Men emerged from the shadows, armed and masked, their movements predatory. Dante didn't hesitate. He raised his gun and fired, the sharp crack of bullets shattering the silence.
The first man went down with a shot to the head. The second, a bullet to the chest. But the gas was taking its toll. His vision doubled, and his movements became sluggish.
The third man lunged at him, but Dante swung his gun like a club, smashing it into his attacker's temple. The fourth rushed him, a knife glinting in the dim light. Dante disarmed him with a brutal twist of the wrist, plunging the blade into the man's throat.
Blood splattered across his face as he staggered, his knees buckling. His lungs burned, every breath dragging him closer to unconsciousness.
"Still standing?" a mocking voice echoed through the warehouse.
Dante turned, his vision swimming as Igor stepped out of the shadows. The Russian's smirk was cold and triumphant, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"Even the devil has limits" Igor drawled, watching as Dante dropped to one knee.
Dante growled, struggling to stay upright, his hands curling into fists. "You think… this will stop me?"
Igor laughed, a low, menacing sound. "Oh, no, Il Diavolo. This is just the beginning."
Dante tried to lunge at him, but his body betrayed him, collapsing to the cold concrete floor. The last thing he saw was Igor's boots approaching, and the last thing he heard was the Russian's voice, dripping with venom.
"Sleep tight, devil. When you wake, the real fun begins."
Darkness claimed him.
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The smell of vanilla and chocolate filled the kitchen as Isabella carefully pulled a tray of cookies from the oven. A satisfied smile tugged at her lips as she glanced at the perfectly golden treats—Dante's favorite. She hummed softly to herself, imagining the pleased look on his face when he returned home.
She imagined his smirk as he tasted them, the way he would tease her for spoiling him before pulling her into his arms.
But then, a sudden pain gripped her chest. It wasn't sharp but dull and suffocating, spreading through her ribcage like a cold wave. She clutched the counter for support, her breath hitching as unease settled over her.
Something was wrong.
Isabella straightened, trying to shake off the feeling, but her hands trembled. "Mirella?" she called, her voice slightly shaky.
The older woman looked up from where she was arranging the dining table. "What is it, dear?"
"I... I don't feel right" Isabella murmured, pressing a hand to her chest. "It's like—" She faltered, her heart skipping a beat. Her stomach churned as dread tightened its grip.
Mirella immediately came to her side, her brows furrowed with concern. "You've been pushing yourself too much. Come, sit down. I'll—"
"No." Isabella shook her head, pulling her phone from her pocket. "I need to call Dante."
As she dialed his number, the front door burst open. Matteo stormed in, his expression dark and tense. Clara was right behind him, her face etched with worry.
"Matteo?" Isabella's voice wavered. "What—"
Clara rushed to her, wrapping her arms around Isabella as if to shield her. "Isabella, sit down" Clara urged softly, but her own voice was trembling.
"What's wrong?" Isabella's eyes darted between Clara and Matteo. Her heart pounded in her chest, her instincts screaming at her that something was terribly wrong. "Where's Dante?"
Matteo hesitated, his jaw tightening. His silence was deafening, his grim expression saying more than words ever could.
"Matteo" Isabella's voice cracked, her eyes filling with tears. "Tell me."
"He's... he's been taken" Matteo finally said, his tone heavy with guilt and frustration.
The words hit Isabella like a physical blow. Her knees buckled as her world spun out of control. "No" she whispered, shaking her head. "No, that's not possible."
Matteo reached out to steady her, but she backed away, her breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps. "You're lying" she accused, her voice rising in panic. "He's fine. He has to be fine!"
"Isabella, listen to me" Matteo said, his voice firm but gentle. "We're going to get him back. I promise."
"No" she whispered, shaking her head. "No, that's not possible. He's Dante Vitale. Il Diavolo"
"He's human" Matteo said, his voice tight, though his own faith in Dante was unshaken. "Even Dante Vitale can be caught off guard. But we'll get him back. I swear it."
But his words barely registered. The weight of the news crashed over her like a tidal wave. Her vision blurred, her legs gave out, and she collapsed into Clara's arms.
"Isabella!" Clara cried, holding her tightly as Mirella and Matteo rushed to her side.
"She's fainted" Mirella said, her voice trembling with worry. "We need to get her upstairs."
Matteo nodded, carefully lifting Isabella into his arms. As he carried her toward the stairs, he glanced at Clara. "Stay with her. I need to make a few calls."
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The warehouse reeked of death. A heavy silence blanketed the space, broken only by the faint dripping of blood pooling on the concrete floor. Four bodies lay scattered in grotesque positions, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. The marks of Dante's wrath were unmistakable—each man bore the brutal signs of a struggle, the ground around them smeared with crimson.
In the center of the chaos sat Dante, his body slumped in a rusted metal chair. His shirt was torn, revealing bloodied skin and bruises blooming across his torso. His wrists were bound tightly, the rope digging into raw flesh, and his dark hair clung to his sweat-drenched face. Though his head hung low, the faint rise and fall of his chest signaled he was alive—barely. A streak of blood trailed from his temple, staining the edge of his jaw. Even in his vulnerable state, there was a foreboding stillness about him, as if the devil within had merely been forced to rest, waiting for the moment to unleash fury once again.